


soliloquy

by mutterandmumble



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bad Flirting, Canon Compliant, Crushes, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, Humor, Increasingly convoluted similes, Other, Pre-Relationship, Teenage Drama, Vaguely antagonistic acquaintances to tentative attraction, nonbinary sakusa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29647803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutterandmumble/pseuds/mutterandmumble
Summary: “You need a map. Because I’m lost in my eyes,” Miya says, with a confidence so complete as to be palpable. Then he smiles with enough enthusiasm that it tumbles over the line into a grimace, eyes half-bulged out of his head and eyebrows wiggling up and down and up and down like he thinks that it’s helping his case- it is not- and then he proceeds to overbalance ever so slightly and trip over air, flailing his arms until he catches onto the edge of the volleyball cart.Or: In which the internet is not the best place to consult for relationship advice, and Sakusa is very, very tired
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	soliloquy

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve written a whole lot of this sort of pre-relationship thing from the point of view of whoever it is that’s trying to flirt, but never the person who is being flirted _with_ and so here we are. One of my favorite types of fics to write literally just boils down to nobody is getting out of this with their dignity intact, and I mean _nobody_ , so this fic overall is just patently ridiculous. Tons of fun to write, though 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy!!

Tuesday practice starts at 9:00 sharp, and then it never really ends.

This is characteristic of most of the practices held during the All-Japan Youth Training Camp, because the thing about the players that attend events such as these is that they’ve got both the sort of work ethic that makes you hurt just to think about and a love of volleyball that is as deep-rooted and complete as a love of volleyball can be. They’re all competitive enough to knock someone dead, too- Sakusa has attended exactly one non-volleyball social event in their time here, and that was an impromptu game of poker that had broken out in the middle of the cafeteria and nearly ended in bloodshed because it drew them all in before somebody could say that hey, maybe getting a group of naturally ambitious, overachieving teenagers together to engage in some pseudo-gambling when they’ve only got 1,500 yen and a box of apple juice between them is not the  _ best _ idea ever. 

That had been a mess. In hindsight they’d probably violated a good few safety requirements and they’d  _ definitely  _ had some of the adult chaperones reconsidering whatever choices they’d made that had landed them the thankless job of keeping a couple of teenagers from resorting to blatant, unapologetic violence at ten in the morning. But regardless of any crises that Sakusa may have caused that day-midlife, financial (it’s a long story) etc, etc- they’re not sorry for anything that they may or may not have done because they had wanted that apple juice and they  _ do not _ fuck around. Hence their presence at this training camp, hence their status as one of the top three aces in Japan despite only being a second year; they know a thing or two about competition. 

So at the end of things they’ve got that need to be better, that near insatiable drive that has them and several others still idling about the gym long past the official end of practice. There are a good number of other players besides themself, all milling around in the stubborn way of people not quite ready for something to come to an end as they toss serves against the wall or start halfhearted games of three-on-three or else engage in some of that very loud, specific conversation that exists between people who, not ten minutes ago, were proclaiming each other their fated rival for the whole rest of their natural lives or at least until the end of this volleyball match, whichever came first. 

Sakusa (in a feat that’s equal parts impressive and vaguely disappointing) has managed to get this far into training camp without declaring anyone their rival, fated or lifelong or otherwise. Now that isn’t to say that they don’t _want_ a rival, as any good player has at least one and Sakusa very emphatically does not do things halfheartedly; they’re just waiting for the right moment, the right lighting and atmosphere and so on and so forth because there’s really no point in having a reputation if you’re not going to use it for a little extra flair. For all that they are, they've never had it in them to pass up a good bit of drama.

For right now though they are still rival-less, and besides that they’ve finally managed to come up on the end of all the extra practice that they’re willing to do, so any dramatic declarations will have to wait until tomorrow. They’ve wandered off into their usual corner to begin their cool-down routine, lingering in the quiet monotony of the moment and letting it settle in their memory because today has been a rather good day and as someone who can be shockingly sentimental sometimes (a trait of theirs that’s not to be discussed unless one is looking to get a fistful of sentiment upside the head), they’d like to remember as much of it as possible. They’re in a good mood so they keep their stretching languid and relaxed, one arm pulled across their chest as the post-practice warmth settles in their chest and a slow and sluggish nighttime breeze streams through the door alongside the soft trill of the crickets. 

They are doing just fine, perfectly content to mind their own business for the next ten minutes and then maybe going off to wheedle some food from wherever they can find it before turning in at a reasonable hour for once, when they feel the unmistakable prickle-crawl of their skin that means that someone somewhere is watching them. 

They freeze for a moment, slightly unsure how to proceed. Then they do a slow scan of the gym, from left to right and top to bottom and find that there are still a decent number of people in there with them, some  _ still  _ practicing and some cooling down and some just staring off half-dead into the distance in the way that you might expect from a group of people who just spent their day engaging in a highly intensive workout, but none of these glaze-eyed people have zoned out in their general direction and it doesn’t look like any of the overzealous players over by the net are about to try and rope them into  _ another  _ three-on-three either, so then it must be someone-

And then they see it, halfway across the court and getting closer by the second. Approaching them with what might pass for trepidation if it were anyone else on earth, with his head held high and a laser-focus that they can feel zoned in right near the top of their shoulder, is Miya Atsumu. 

Sakusa doesn’t have much time to wonder at this, because Miya still somehow has the energy to jog and is within talking distance in a solid five seconds. Sakusa will admit that he does have one thing going for him right out of the gate, and that’s that he’s respectful of their need for personal space- most of the people here have been, once they made their boundaries clear, so though they’ll deny it until their dying day they’ve developed something of a begrudging respect for their temporary teammates- so he’s standing a good few feet back, staring them with wide eyes and all the airs of a man about to do something wildly stupid. Sakusa can feel their hopes for a quiet evening slipping right out of their grasp, because Miya is many, many things, but he isn’t quiet- he’s the sort of person that would start up a rapport with a brick wall, if for no reason other than it couldn’t walk away.

Sakusa is not a brick wall, nor are they a captive audience; in fact, the only reason that they haven’t sidestepped Miya and gone off to enjoy the rest of their night is that they’re  _ tired _ . As in fatigued, as in  _ exhausted _ , as in can hardly stand straight. Frankly it would take more effort to avoid Miya at this point than it would take to push past him, so right then and there Sakusa decides that they’re just going to let this one happen. Fine. Fine. Fuck it. So it goes; life is a nightmare and they are still, unfortunately, awake. 

So they stand there, still cycling through their stretches because a person has to have  _ some  _ dignity at least, and Miya stands in front of them for a solid thirty seconds (they count) without doing anything at all. This is starting to feel distinctly horror movie-ish, but right when Sakusa is about to stop giving a fuck entirely and muster the energy to go find another corner to stretch in, Miya seems to jerk back to life. Then, because all good things must come to an end and Miya being silent is irrevocably a  _ good thing _ , he begins to speak.

“Hey,” he says, voice high-pitched and oddly wobbly. His eyes are very wide- he’s looking at Sakusa as if he’s never seen another human being before, staring them down like he’s been roaming a post-apocalyptic earth for thirty straight years and has just learned that he is not, in fact, the last person left alive. It’s sort of flattering, in a very strange, kind of questionable way. 

It’s also weird like you wouldn’t fucking  _ believe _ . 

“What,” they reply flatly, because they really can’t think of any reason that Miya would be trying to talk to them right now. They don’t know anything of each other aside from their reputations, and the only time that they’d ever interacted other than during matches was during that fucking  _ poker game _ \- Sakusa had made a decent number of enemies that day- so unless Miya is planning on trying (emphasis on  _ trying _ ) to exact some revenge, then Sakusa doesn’t know what he could want from them. Miya’s not showing any outward signs either, doing nothing but shifting on the spot and clearing his throat and shaking his head several times in quick succession, and it’s only after a good ten seconds of this that he finally,  _ finally  _ starts again.

“Hey,” he repeats, and he’s straightened up and there’s more confidence this time, but it’s- well, it’s more like  _ heeyyyy,  _ and it’s followed by a messy wink that’s executed clumsily, with both eyes. This is different from blinking only in the sheer amount of baseless confidence that he’s exuding, standing there with his arms crossed and his back straight and the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that might pass for a smirk in the right lighting. This is not the right lighting. He looks like he’s dying. 

Sakusa takes a deep, deep breath and pushes down their immediate instinct, which is to finally, finally snap and start a fistfight in this quiet little corner of the gym. They’ve spent the past several years playing a sport that has them in close proximity with a bunch of messy, wildly unhygienic teenagers for twelve hours a day- they are quite familiar with this urge. They are also quite familiar with its immediate and necessary suppression, so they sigh through their nose and resign themself to this situation with the world-weary weight of someone who’s done this many, many times before. 

“What do you want,” they ask, sure to keep their tone as carefully disinterested as it was before, because annoyed as they are, some part of them is thinking that yes, yes this is  _ it  _ this is the moment that they’re going to get to declare their eternal rivalry and hey, they guess that Miya’s as good a player as any (which is not something to be said out loud- even  _ thinking _ it has a little shiver of horror worming its way down their spine) and while this isn’t the  _ best  _ place for something like this, it’s not like they can ask Miya if they can move this in front of an audience maybe or like, outside at least. Oh well. They know how to work with what they’ve got- they can make this sufficiently dramatic, sufficiently impressive. It’ll be a rivalry for the ages. 

Miya seems surprised that they haven’t brushed him off yet. He blinks (an actual blink this time, like he’s taken aback rather than making another attempt at whatever it was that he was trying to do earlier) before he recovers, doubling down on the whole weird vibe that he’s got going on. He stumbles a few steps forwards, still far enough away that they’re comfortable but close enough that they can see the twitch of his brow and the strange sheen of his eyes, and he braces himself and they think that here they go, here they  _ go,  _ this is going to be the start of their success story, their epic rivalry that spans years and years, and they’re so fucking  _ ready  _ for it that they find themself leaning forward as Miya winds himself up and finally spits out his declaration in one big breath. 

“You need a map. Because I’m lost in my eyes,” he says, with a confidence so complete as to be palpable. Then he smiles with enough enthusiasm that it tumbles over the line into a grimace, eyes half-bulged out of his head and eyebrows wiggling up and down and up and down like he thinks that it’s helping his case- it is not- and then he proceeds to overbalance ever so slightly and trip over air, flailing his arms until he catches onto the edge of the volleyball cart. It rolls a few inches and Sakusa wonders  _ how _ exactly this is going to end, in the slow, idle way of someone who, when faced with a situation that did  _ not  _ go how they though it was going to go (seriously what the  _ fuck _ ) decided that the best solution was to take a long mental nap. Hell, they think, they might even be about to witness  _ the  _ Miya Atsumu, who has been talking himself up all week long with all the impenetrable bluster of someone who believes what they are saying through and through and through, fall directly on his face. 

The idea appeals more to them than they would like to admit, because Sakusa is sixteen years old and sixteen year olds are not exactly known for their flourishing wealth of emotional maturity. Sakusa isn’t here to practice empathy; Sakusa is here because they are being flirted with in a roundabout, disastrous kinda way, and as someone who entered this interaction expecting to walk away with a shiny new _rivalry_ , they really don’t know what to do with themself. So they watch Miya scrabble around for a bit, laughing a little at the strange high-pitched warble that tears itself from his throat, and they wonder if they should start recording because blackmail like this would give them some _pull_ in the high-school volleyball circuit, close-knit and drama-prone as it is, and when in doubt mild extortion is always a viable option. They know this from experience. 

They’ve gotten as far as tucking all their moral qualms away and pulling their phone out of their pocket before Miya recovers and it becomes clear that no one will be falling today, whether it be on their face or in love or from heaven as it were. Sakusa is disappointed. Sakusa puts their phone back into their pocket and crosses their arms, because Sakusa is not the nicest person on earth (but they’re self-aware at least, which is more than they can say for some people) and they sort of want to see where this is going. So they stand there, sure to keep their expression frozen in easy distaste even as one of their curls frees itself from its bobby pin chokehold and then springs forwards with all the zeal of someone gasping for their final breath, and they watch and they wait as Miya makes a valiant attempt at pulling himself back together. 

It takes a minute. It involves a lot of deep breathing and counting backwards from ten. Sakusa watches these proceedings with the same straight-faced impassivity that they’ve been cultivating throughout the entirety of their life, ever since they first came home from the hospital and took to the mobile above their crib with the same sort of energetic fervor that another might take to watching paint dry. At least the mobile played music- Miya just sort of snorts and snuffles and looks off into the distance like a lovelorn fisherman waiting for his dignity to return from the war. 

“So,” he says eventually, jerking his head to look at them again. “That worked, right? You wanna exchange numbers?”   
  


Sakusa stares at him. 

“Okay, okay, that’s fair,” Miya mumbles, and he makes a noncommittal gesture that looks as though it’s trying very, very hard to be another sort of noncommittal gesture. He seems a little lost; Sakusa assumes that he’s failed to plan beyond this point, and on one hand they can appreciate the sheer amount of self-confidence that it had taken to dive right in with nothing but a line like  _ that,  _ but on the other hand- really?  _ Really? That’s  _ what he’s leading with? Sakusa won’t pretend that they get flirted with often, but they’d like to think that they at least warrant a  _ decent  _ pickup line, like one of the ones about fish in the sea or  _ fuck  _ even some half-babbled bullshit about them being from Tenessee because they’re the only _ ten  _ he  _ sees _ , etc etc, and that would be good actually because that would work with their jersey number and everything, and hey Sakusa’s kinda decent at this, maybe  _ they  _ should’ve been the one doing the flirting here, that would show  _ him- _

Wait. 

Well that’s not right. They seem to have gotten off track. 

“So!” Miya exclaims suddenly, startling them from their reverie. “You’re here. At the training camp. And I’m here too, and that’s that common ground shit people are always goin’ on about right? Yeah, yeah, and just gimme a second-”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and unlocks at it at the speed of light, glances down at what seems to be a wikihow page and then nods several times. Sakusa has shot right past offense and into horrified awe- Miya really lives like this? Approaches people like this?  _ Flirts _ like this? 

Fascinating, really. They wonder how he hasn’t gotten himself killed yet.

“Right,” Miya mutters, and then the phone goes back into his pocket and he pastes a much-too-wide smile on his face, looking directly into their eyes with an intensity that has their eyebrows creeping up towards their hairline. Komori will be hearing about this at length later, they decide. Komori will be hearing about this in excruciating detail until he can tell them what the  _ fuck  _ they were supposed to take away from this encounter. “Got a text. Nothing I gotta deal with right now. Anyways, back to the important stuff.  _ You’re _ good at volleyball and  _ I’m _ good at volleyball and I think that if we dated then we’d both be like, doubly good at volleyball because of- whatever the fuck it’s called. Community property. Something like that.”

This is said with such complete confidence that Sakusa actually finds themself considering it for a moment. Then they find themself considering that consideration and realizing with a slow, dawning horror that they’ve heard worse arguments, actually, and they haven’t sent Miya running for the hills yet because upon closer inspection his eyes are actually kinda nice and they suppose that he’s sort of funny, and oh  _ god  _ oh  _ no  _ right  _ now _ ? Really? 

“I think that’s only for marriage,” they say numbly, as their attention is on more important things at the moment. Miya goes bright red. He sputters and stutters around for a bit, something that Sakusa does not pay attention to because they’re busy doing their own mental gymnastics and they don’t have time for Miya’s little crisis. There’s no peace for them, is there? No peace at  _ all _ .

“Ah, fuck.  _ Fuck,  _ you’re right. And that’s comin’ on too strong, isn’t it? Talking about marriage before the first date is comin’ on too strong,” Miya says, half to himself. “The article said to not come on too strong. Hey, Omi-Omi-”

“Don’t call me that,” Sakusa snaps on instinct, though they find that to their horror, they don’t really mind. 

“ _ Omi-Omi,  _ that was comin’ on too strong, right?”

Sakusa looks at him like he’s stupid. They are doing this because he’s being  _ stupid _ , and say what you will about Sakusa, they’ve never really been one for pretending. 

“Yes,” they tell him, not bothering to soften their tone. “Any reference to marriage when you’re asking out someone you’ve talked to  _ twice  _ is  _ coming on too strong _ .”

Miya nods like this is some great revelation, but it’s _not_ and it _can’t_ be and Sakusa knows this for sure because Sakusa is still in the middle of _their_ great revelation, and if _they’re_ having a crisis and _Miya’s_ having a crisis, then who’s driving the plot? 

“Shit,” Miya says blankly, carrying on with his moment of self-realization regardless of the implications. He looks genuinely devastated by this turn of events, like he’d walked into this with his wikihow page and half-remembered pickup line and actually expected to walk out one date richer. As it is though, Sakusa has to admit that he may have been onto something there- they are, and they are saying this with no small amount of disgust, slowly coming to terms with the fact that they are  _ endeared.  _

Horrifying. 

“ _ Shit _ ,” Miya repeats, this time with feeling. Then he rubs a hand over his forehead, squeezes his eyes shut and exhales through his nose. “Look. Listen. It was just  _ really  _ hot when you almost punched Tobio during that poker game, okay? That’s it. That’s all I got. Other than that I can get you like, somethin’ from the vending machine but I’m broke so it couldn’t be any of the fancy shit. Nothin’ name brand. Maybe that canned coffee stuff. You like that, right? You drink it a lot.”

He waves his hand, not looking them in the eye, and Sakusa considers this. All of this. First and foremost: they are beginning to think that Miya has extremely questionable taste. Counterpoint: they happen to be a little flattered, because he  _ did  _ call them hot, and what can they say? They’re only human. 

And well as it is and as they are, they don’t hate Miya. They don’t actually feel all that much towards Miya, other than the mildly hostile overtures that are somewhat of a given when you find yourself on the opposite side of the net from somebody, especially when that somebody has a bit of a reputation and plays for a team which has a bit of reputation and their team is playing your team which has a bit of a reputation and most of the attention happens to be focused on  _ you  _ because- wait for it- you have a bit of a reputation. 

In short: They’re all posturing, all the time. A certain amount of antagonism is expected.

But aside from that, they don’t know much about Miya other than what they’ve learned from the few games they’ve played, from the proximity in these past few days. He’s kind of annoying sure, but Sakusa thinks that most everyone is, and he’s kind of loud but that could be worse (they’ve known louder people), and they know that Miya’s competitive and though he’d probably deny it if asked, he likely works very, very hard at things that he cares about because he’s at this particular training camp, same as the rest of them. Being hardworking is an attractive trait, but then again they watched Miya wash his hair with bar soap over the ( _ communal _ ) bathroom sink the other day and frankly they’re not sure that they’ll ever be able to get that image out of their head, so their feelings are mixed to say the least. 

But jokes aside and at the end of things, Miya’s not terrible. Miya’s kinda funny and kinda hot and very hardworking and respectful of their boundaries. They might not  _ know _ Miya but again they don’t  _ hate  _ him, and from what they can figure they might actually like Miya quite a bit if they give him the chance. That or they could walk away now, cultivate some careful vitriol just for the hell of it, and then grow to genuinely despise him in the way that people do with others who are just a bit too much like themselves. Just as a fun Tuesday night activity. Rivalry building, which is like team building but everyone gets into a circle and proceeds to be absolute dicks to each other for twenty straight minutes. 

They’re getting off track again, and it looks like Miya’s noticed. He’s fidgeting, still not looking at them, and they figure that they better say something, because they  _ do  _ quite like that canned coffee stuff every- they drink a can every two days, because they like to schedule everything down to their 200 yen indulgences- and they  _ were  _ planning on stopping by the vending machine once they finally found it in themself to actually leave the gym, but if Miya’s not terrible and Miya’s offering to pay and they think that they  _ would  _ like to go out with him at some point, than who are they to refuse? 

“Fine. One can. You’re paying,” they eventually decide, hardly able to believe the words even as they say them, and then they brush past Miya and march off towards the exit before they’ve got the chance to talk themself out of it. They do not look behind them; they know that Miya isn’t following, but then again they also know that they’ve done enough damage to their reputation for a five-minute period and they need to pull  _ some  _ sort of power move to bring the world back into balance. Thus the way that they’re sweeping off, thus the way that they stop and turn on their heel ever so slightly so that they can look back towards Miya, who is standing dumbstruck where they left him, one hand hovering over his phone and the other dangling helplessly at his side. 

“Well?” they ask, tossing the question out over their shoulder with a careless ease or maybe even a devil-may-care attitude, as the romance novels that they absolutely do  _ not  _ read might call it. They even throw in a slight crook of their eyebrow for good measure and Miya’s eyes go even wider as he sputters and stumbles in place, and they are  _ so  _ good at this, they are  _ killing  _ this exit with all its frills and flair and overwhelming  _ drama.  _ Those romance novels that again they do  _ not _ read and do  _ not _ have a collection of on the bookshelf above their bed could take some  _ notes.  _ “Are you coming?”

Miya makes a sound like a whale or a kettle or an awkward teenage boy who also just so happens to be leading a secret second life as a goose. He looks genuinely terrified for half a second, like he didn’t expect to make it this far, and Sakusa realizes with a little snort of humor that he probably  _ didn’t _ , and if the quality of the advice that he’d been getting from whatever article he’d dug up from the internet is any indication, he probably doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do next. Sakusa wonders what thinly-veiled excuse he’ll come up with that’ll allow him to google it. They hope it’s something funny.

Miya does manage to get himself together soon enough, and then he fumbles his way over to them as he roots through his pockets and his face twists further and further. 

“I’ve gotta go grab my bag ‘cause my wallet’s in there and I need my wallet if I’m buying shit,” he announces very quickly, each word defined and distinct and very obviously rehearsed. Sakusa laughs again, louder and more real this time because this is his excuse, his grand plan to get a second away from them so he can look up  _ flirting worked what next what the fujckjfdjf????  _ or some shit like that, and they are stupidly, hopelessly won over by how  _ ridiculous  _ Miya is. This is one of those love stories for the ages- nothing like a botched pickup line to make sparks fly. 

On second thought, Komori can’t ever learn about this. They’d never live it down.

“I’ll just be a second, just lemme-” Miya continues, and then he breaks away from their side and makes a beeline towards the benches, where his gym bag is sagging sadly over onto the floor. He’s trying to wrestle his phone from his pocket at the same time and is moving much too fast for someone who is not exactly at the top of their game, and Sakusa watches as he throws himself off balance and recovers in the nick of time over and over again, never quite able to get a handle on himself but never collapsing down into a tiny point like he seems to want to, either. They watch, and they think that they might be making a stupid decision. They watch, and they think that they really don’t care.

And outside the crickets chirp and the breeze rustles on through the trees, and inside a few overactive teenagers climb and clamber over each other as a serve goes astray and promptly starts a miniature brawl. Atsumu comes sprinting back over with his bag clutched tightly to his chest, still half-open and spilling clothing out behind him, dropped to the floor and forgotten as he approaches them and then jogs in place, phone clutched tightly in his free hand. 

“Go, go,” he hisses through his teeth, throwing a frantic look over at the fight, which has taken its momentum and built itself up into a big, roiling mass of angry shouting and accusatory fingers jabbed into chests and already tall people trying to make themselves look even taller. “They’re gonna get in so much fuckin’ trouble, but if we leave now than we won’t get caught up in it and when they’re all runnin’ laps or something tomorrow we won’t have to and we can sit on the sidelines and watch and laugh, that’s good date stuff, laughin’ at your teammates, now c’mon we gotta  _ go _ -”

He jogs out the door, leaving a light blue sock draped across the threshold that Sakusa has to carefully maneuver themself over.  _ Cinderella,  _ some deep, dark part of their brain whispers.  _ Shut the fuck up _ , the bigger, louder part whispers back. Sakusa decides that this particular mental exchange is not one that will ever see the light of day. They’ve got more important things to worry about at the moment because in the midst of it all, when they were being flirted with and was maybe, nearly flirting back, when they were busy trying to parse their own attractions and figuring out a course of action, they’d forgotten one very important thing: they’ve never actually  _ been  _ in any sort of romantic relationship before, much less this awkward in-between stage where’s there’s acknowledged and reciprocated interest but no plans for a date because they  _ refuse  _ to consider a trip to the  _ vending machine  _ a first date, despite the fact that the vending machine’s definitely got mood lighting. What mood exactly they couldn’t tell you- existential dread maybe, consumerism on a good day- but mood lighting nonetheless. 

Regardless, they don’t know what to call this. They don’t know what to do. And as they finally make it down the stairs and over to Miya, the little, traitorous part of their brain that still hasn’t learned how to  _ be quiet  _ tells them that hey, their phone’s in their pocket- maybe they should look it up.

**Author's Note:**

> please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed!! I love hearing from you guys!!


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